


that's how you know (he's your love)

by ADreamingSongbird



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Depression, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Mild Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Supportive Katsuki Yuuri, Supportive Victor Nikiforov, and they live happily ever after, listen theyre just dorks in love and happily living together with their beloved pup.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-30
Updated: 2017-06-30
Packaged: 2018-11-21 15:50:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11360619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ADreamingSongbird/pseuds/ADreamingSongbird
Summary: Five times Katsuki Yuuri did something to make Viktor Nikiforov fall a little more in love, and one time Viktor returned the favor.(With art by the lovelyRiki!)





	that's how you know (he's your love)

**Author's Note:**

> loosely based on the five languages of love (acts of service, physical touch, words of affirmation, quality time, and gifts)!!

1.

* * *

 The _dishes._

Fuck.

All day, there’s been a niggling little doubt at the back of his mind, telling him he’s forgetting _something_ , but leaving him with no clue what—and it’s only _now_ , after his own practice is over and Yuuri’s already gone home, that he’s remembered he forgot to do the dishes last night.

Guilt rises up, sudden and cloying; Yuuri’s still settling in and adjusting to being in a new country, surrounded by new people and learning a new language, on top of training too, and they agreed to split the chores and yesterday it was Viktor’s turn to do the dishes and he _forgot_.  If he didn’t have gloves on to stave off the evening chill, he’d pull his phone out right now to send a thousand apologies via text and emojis and possibly a call, too, but as it is, he might as well just walk and do it in person.  After all, he’s only a few blocks away from his—from their apartment ( _theirs_ , and the thought is still novel enough to send a thrill through him despite anything else).

Muttering under his breath to himself, he drags his tired body down the sidewalk, up the stairs, and into his apartment building.  The wind is biting tonight, and he’s spent so many hours at the rink he’s honestly lost count—between coaching Yuuri in the morning and being coached by Yakov in the afternoon, he’s probably spent more of the conscious part of his day at the rink than at home.

By the time he gets to his door, the guilt for forgetting to do the dishes is back.  Sure, he’s remembered every other time it’s been his turn, but that’s no excuse for dropping the ball last night!  He’s _supposed_ to be trying his hardest to make the transition easier on Yuuri, not letting his terrible memory get in the way.

_Snick_.  The key turns in the lock.  The door opens easily, warmth seeping into his skin as soon as he steps inside—Yuuri isn’t fond of the pervasive chill of St. Petersburg nights.

“Yuuri, I’m home,” he calls, and then stops.

The living room is spotless.

The pillows are arranged neatly on the couch, the rug looks like it’s been vacuumed, the coffee table has been dusted, and the books that were haphazardly lying on it have been arranged into a neat stack.

Viktor blinks.  Well… alright.  It hadn’t been _dirty_ before, but… maybe Yuuri was just stress-cleaning?

“Vitya?”  Yuuri’s head pops out of the kitchen, and oh, Viktor is _never_ going to get tired of seeing him here, in this apartment, _here_.  Yuuri’s face lights up as soon as he sees him, and then he comes out of the kitchen to give Viktor a welcome-home hug.  “I’m making dinner,” he murmurs into Viktor’s neck.  “You’re cold.”

“That’s because you didn’t give me a chance to get this coat off, sweetheart,” Viktor tells him, kissing his forehead.  “I assure you I am quite warm underneath.”

Yuuri laughs, pulling away and starting to unbutton the coat in question.  “Alright,” he says, “then let me get it out of the way.”

Once the coat and scarf and gloves and hat are all draped over the back of the couch, abandoned for the moment, Yuuri wraps his arms around him again, and Viktor holds him close, pressing his nose into that lovely dark hair.  Yuuri is warmth and comfort and home, and Viktor never ever wants to let him go.

But all too soon, Yuuri is pulling back again, though he’s still smiling.  “I shouldn’t leave the stove unattended for too long,” he says, giving Viktor a gentle push toward the bedroom.  “Go shower and get changed into something comfortable.  Dinner’s almost ready, okay?”

“Thank you, darling,” Viktor says, running a tired hand through his hopelessly-mussed hair.  Yuuri kisses his cheek and goes back to the kitchen, leaving him to take his coat and go to the bedroom in search of pajamas.

And he stops in the doorway, again.

The bedroom, too, is immaculate—the bed has new sheets, the carpet has been vacuumed, and when he opens the closet, the laundry hamper is empty.  Yuuri did the laundry?  But Viktor was planning to do it tomorrow…

He hangs his coat up, stuffs the hat and gloves into their drawer, grabs an old T-shirt and sweatpants, and hops into the shower, emerging a few minutes later feeling somewhat refreshed and very relaxed.  Hot water pounding against his back has always been a good way to end a long day.

In the kitchen, he finds Yuuri, humming as he stirs a pot of curry, back to the door.  There’s music playing from the Bluetooth speaker they keep on the countertop, some American pop song or other, and Yuuri is dancing, bouncing side-to-side and bobbing his head to the beat.  Frankly, it’s _adorable_ , but the next thing Viktor notices is the conspicuous lack of dishes in the sink.  The rest of the kitchen, he realizes, is similarly clean—no dishes, no clutter, not even ring-shaped stains from cups of tea or coffee on the countertop.

The guilt returns in full force.  Either Yuuri did a _lot_ of stress-cleaning, or Yuuri gave up on trusting him to handle his share of the chores.  Possibly both.

“I am so sorry,” he says, and Yuuri jumps with a squeak of surprise.

“Don’t sneak up on me like that!” he complains, turning around to gesture with his spatula, and then blinks.  “And what are you apologizing for?”

“I forgot to do the dishes,” Viktor says slowly, confused, because what _else_ would he be apologizing for?

Oh, wait, he can think of things.

“And I fell asleep during the movie the night before, instead of watching it all the way with you.  And I wasn’t home when you needed eggs so you had to go to the grocery store alone even though you said you feel nervous doing that when you don’t speak fluently yet.  And—”

“Vitya,” Yuuri says, bemused, and Viktor stops talking.  “Vitya, what?  I—why would I be—I’m not _mad_ at you for any of that!”  He sounds completely incredulous at the idea, but Viktor is tired and disappointed in himself, and he sighs.

“Are you disappointed?” he asks, shoulders slumping.  “I’m sorry, solnyshko, I know it shouldn’t have been so hard to do, I really have no excuse, I just—”

“No, no, no!”  Yuuri waves his spatula frantically, eyes wide.  “I’m not upset with you at all, why would—no, Vitya, stop, why do you even think I’m mad about the dishes or something?”

Viktor blinks.  “I… well, I don’t know, because I should have done them, but I didn’t, so then you had to?”

Yuuri swivels around, sticks the spatula back in the pot, and then loops his arms around Viktor’s waist.  “Silly man,” he says, “I just tried to take care of as much of the house chores as I could because I _know_ you’ve been exhausted lately.  You’re coaching _and_ training, on top of having to help me every time I go out in case I need to translate something, and, well, I mean, I might not be able to confidently manage a grocery run on my own yet, but I can definitely clean up an apartment, so… I just thought I would try and make it easier on you, that’s all.”

Viktor stares at this beautiful man in his arms for a moment, eyes wide and surprised.  He’s so _thoughtful,_ and so sweet and—

Viktor kisses him hard, a little overwhelmed by how much he loves him, and Yuuri lets out a little surprised peep against his lips but kisses him back.  It softens, becomes slow and sweet and gentle, until Viktor pulls back just enough to look down at Yuuri tenderly and kiss his forehead.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.  “You didn’t have to do so much.  You must be exhausted, too.”

Yuuri hums noncommitally, which means he _is_ tired and just doesn’t want to admit it, and smiles up at him.  Viktor smiles back and is overcome with the urge to kiss him again, so he does, and when Yuuri pulls him closer and sighs contentedly into the kiss, Viktor thinks that surely, this is what heaven must be like.

“We can both go to bed early tonight,” Yuuri says, his roundabout way of agreeing that he could use the rest.  Viktor hums his agreement and steals another kiss.  Honestly, if he had his way, he would gladly spend the rest of his life doing nothing but kissing Yuuri over and over and over again.  Yuuri’s kisses feel like _home_.

“You are a delight and I am blessed to have you here, in my arms,” Viktor tells him, nuzzling his cheek, and Yuuri hugs him tighter, blushing but smiling.  “My Yuuri.”

“Dinner’s ready,” Yuuri says as Viktor kisses his hair.  “It’s just rice and curry—sorry, I didn’t have time to make much else, and I still need to fold all the clean laundry, I hope that’s okay—”

“I’ll take care of the laundry,” Viktor murmurs, chest tightening.  _I love you, I love you, I love you._   “And the fact that you even made dinner on top of cleaning the entire apartment is amazing already, dearest.  You …”

He can’t quite find the words, so he settles for kissing Yuuri’s forehead again.

“Thank you,” he adds, again, because saying it just once isn’t enough.  “My lovely, wonderful, kind, beautiful Yuuri.”

(They fall asleep tangled together that night, and in the morning when the alarms sound, Viktor looks at their immaculate bedroom as Yuuri stubbornly clings to him with some sleepy grumbles about it being too early, and figures five more minutes never hurt anyone.)

* * *

2.

* * *

 “Yuuri?” Viktor calls, frowning at the closet with his hands on his hips.  There is one conspicuously empty hanger and that just won’t do, because sure, he can wear something else today, but he _likes_ that sweater and there’s no way he left it at the rink or something, right?  They just did the laundry, so it isn’t dirty, so either he lost it, or…

Footsteps entering the bedroom alert him to his beautiful fiancé’s presence.  “Yes?”

Turning around with one finger tapping his chin in consternation, he asks, “Have you seen my red…”

…and stops, because his red sweater is _right there._

On Yuuri.

Viktor has to pretend he didn’t just go weak in the knees at the sight.

“Ah,” he says, feeling a grin spread across his face.  “That’s where it went.”

Yuuri, dear sweet adorable Yuuri, actually blushes as if he isn’t completely shameless about his act of theft.  “Sorry,” he says, reaching for the hem and starting to pull it up.  “I can wear something else, I probably should have asked before taking it…”

Viktor quickly steps forward, catches his wrist, and stops him.  “No, no,” he says, giddy with glee because _Yuuri_ is _wearing his sweater_.  It’s… a very nice sight.  Very nice.  Very, very nice.

“No?” Yuuri repeats, cocking his head to one side and blinking like a curious little owl.  Viktor lets go of his wrist and wraps his arm around his waist instead, tugging him closer, until he can press his lips to Yuuri’s temple, which he does, smiling.

“No, I was just worried I’d lost it,” he explains, and Yuuri makes a little sound of understanding.  He leans into Viktor’s touch and smiles back.  “I like how it looks on you, though.”

“I’m glad,” Yuuri says, sliding his arm around Viktor’s waist too.  “Because in that case, I’ll happily steal it for the rest of the day.  It’s very soft.”

“That it is,” Viktor agrees.  The sweater is a bit too big for Yuuri, hanging asymmetrically from his shoulders and reaching down past his hips, and it’s an incredibly endearing look on him.  He’s so … so precious.  Such a treasure.  Viktor kisses his forehead and promptly decides that the issue of composing a grocery list can wait, since there are clearly more important matters at hand here (such as his lovely fiancé and the number of kisses Viktor needs to give him).

Yuuri hums and tucks his head under Viktor’s chin.  “I should get back to the kitchen,” he says absently, looping his other arm around Viktor’s waist too.  “I left my phone in there, and that’s where I was writing the list…”

“Another minute or two wouldn’t hurt,” Viktor reasons.  Another minute or two of _what_ , he’s not entirely sure, but that doesn’t matter because so long as it’s something remotely similar to this, to standing here with Yuuri in his sweater and in his arms, he’s more than content with it.

“I guess not,” Yuuri agrees, and then hums softly again.  “So long as we do actually go today.  We’re out of milk, which means no hot chocolate unless we use water alone.”

“No,” Viktor says quickly.  “No, we’ll go today.”

Yuuri laughs and lifts his head from Viktor’s shoulder.  Viktor looks down at him with a bright, adoring smile and kisses the tip of his nose; Yuuri responds by leaning up and kissing him sweetly.  And isn’t _that_ delightful—Yuuri’s kisses are wonderful and always to be treasured!

He kisses back with warmth and enthusiasm, his hands on Yuuri’s back pressing into his own sweater.  Yuuri is smiling against his lips, and that’s just so lovely that Viktor smiles back, until it’s less of a kiss and more of just two smiles pressed together, and he opens his eyes to find Yuuri’s chocolatey-brown ones gazing back up at him.

“You’re so cute when you blush,” Yuuri says, and Viktor blinks, taken aback.

“I am _not_ blushing,” he contradicts.

Yuuri laughs and kisses him again.  “You are,” he assures.  “You turned red as soon as you realized I stole your sweater.”

Viktor opens his mouth to reply, realizes it’s true, closes it again, and then finally says, “Alright, fine, you caught me, dearest.  I wasn’t expecting this.  You really like that sweater, hm?”

And to his surprise, Yuuri blushes too, a stain of dusky pink blossoming across his cheeks.  “Yes,” he says after a moment, but oh, Viktor isn’t letting him off that lightly now.

“What do you like about it so much, then?” he asks, moving the fingers of one hand in a slow, small circle at the small of Yuuri’s back.  Yuuri makes a small noise and presses closer, not quite making eye contact.

“It… is soft,” he says to Viktor’s collar after a moment.  “And very warm.”

“Softer and warmer than any sweater you own?” Viktor asks, eyebrows rising.  “Should we add ‘nice sweaters for Yuuri’ to the shopping list?”

“That’s not entirely it,” Yuuri mumbles.

“Then what?” asks Viktor, fully aware that he’s probably enjoying this too much.  What can he say?  His adorable fiancé is easily flustered by some things.  Apparently this is one of them!  And it’s _so cute_.

Yuuri flushes pink again, fidgets with a few strands of Viktor’s hair, and then stares fixedly straight ahead as he mumbles, “It’s soft, warm, and it smells like you, so I like it.”

“ _Yuuri_ ,” Viktor croons, utterly delighted.  “Yuuri, that’s so sweet!  Ah, dorogoy, you just make me so happy,” and he peppers a flurry of quick kisses to Yuuri’s cheeks, down his jaw, along his nose, across his forehead, and to the corner of his lips, while Yuuri blushes some more and laughs.

“It’s just a sweater,” he protests, but Viktor is having none of that, because a sweater is just as good of an excuse as any other to smother his fiancé in affection.  He spent twenty-seven years waiting for someone he could cover with kisses, dammit, so he’s not letting any opportunity get away!

He kisses the corner of Yuuri’s lips again and smiles.  “It’s my favorite sweater,” he corrects.  “My favorite sweater on my favorite person!  Don’t you think that’s wonderful?  I think it’s wonderful.”

Yuuri reaches up, running his hands through Viktor’s hair, and Viktor just about melts at his touch, his eyes fluttering shut almost immediately.  Yuuri chuckles, his thumbs rubbing little circles at Viktor’s temples, and kisses his cheek.  “I think,” he says, a teasing note in his voice, “that you might like having me in your sweater even more than I like wearing it.”

“I think,” Viktor answers, internally debating whether Yuuri’s reflexes are good enough to catch him if he just swoons right now, “you might be onto something.”

(They end up drinking hot chocolate made with water that night.)

* * *

3.

* * *

Lethargy.

Apathy.

Numbness.

_Ah._ It hits him before he even bothers opening his eyes.  _So today will be one of these days._

Viktor rolls over, eyes still closed, reaching for Yuuri, the small corner of his mind that isn’t drowning in oppressive silence desperately craving the comfort that he can find in his beloved’s arms, but the other side of the bed is empty and cold.  He opens his eyes.

Emptiness greets him.  Not even Makkachin is here.

Viktor sighs, resigned and lonely.  He _hates_ feeling like this, hates feeling anything less than one-hundred percent at any given time, but he’d be lying if he said he hasn’t gotten used to feeling this way. 

The ceiling, painted a dismal grey by the diffuse early morning sunlight that comes creeping in around the curtains, offers no solace.  It looks about the same shade as he feels—washed out and pale, bland and colorless.  He studies it blankly for several heartbeats, eyes skimming over the familiar smooth surface with all its tiny bumps and ridges, the brushstrokes in the paint, still and cold.

Eventually, he dredges up the energy to reach for his phone, wondering what time it is, wondering where Yuuri is, wondering why he’s so alone, but his fingers brush paper on top of it, and he frowns, fumbling until he manages to grab it, too tired and apathetic to bother sitting up to look.

There’s a light pink sticky note attached to his phone.  He squints at it in the dimness.

_Makka was really restless so I took her out for a little bit! You looked peaceful and I didn’t want to wake you. We’ll be home soon, love you!_ _♥_

Oh.

He traces the _home_ with a fingertip, his touch featherlight as if he’s afraid to damage the words, then moves on to the _love you_ and the heart.  It ought to make him feel better, he thinks, but all it does is confirm that he’s alone right now, and the silence roaring in his ears drowns out any warmth that the rest of the words might have lent him.

_God._ He hasn’t had a day this bad in… in a long time.  He thought—he thought he was _over_ this, idiot that he is.  But now the air around him feels like molasses, thick and slow and heavy, and the very act of getting out of bed seems a herculean task, let alone pulling on skates at the rink.  Just thinking about having to go anywhere is making him more tired.

Eventually, though, the disgust at himself for ignoring the time and ignoring his life and for lying there like a useless pile of nothingness grows, until it’s louder than the lethargy.  Feeling vaguely nauseous from self-loathing, he rolls over and sits up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.  It takes too much energy, but he hauls himself to the bathroom to wash up anyway. 

After all, he has to be ready to pretend he’s fine.  He has to…

God, Viktor wishes he wasn’t alone right now.  He can feel himself slipping into bad thoughts, thoughts he _knows_ are false but that refuse to stop whirling around his mind.  _This is why you’re always alone,_ they say.  _No one wants to be around someone who’s like this._

_He’ll leave you if he sees…_

“Shut up,” he says raggedly, clutching the edges of the vanity and staring at the sink.  “He won’t.  _He won’t.”_ Yuuri knows he has depression.  Yuuri has seen him have a bad day before.  Maybe not as bad as today, but he knows.  He won’t leave.  _He won’t._

(The fear lingers.)

_Please,_ he thinks, he begs.  _Please come home soon._

He’s made it to the living room, is sitting on the couch, moodily staring out the window across the room, when the door opens and lets in a rush of air, a content, happy dog, and his fiancé.

“Good morning!” Yuuri chirps, cheerful and bright in a way that Viktor can’t possibly hope to reciprocate, not today.  It leaves him feeling even worse, because surely Yuuri deserves to have that happiness reflected back at him, but…

“Morning,” he manages shortly, and even though he tries smiling, he knows it doesn’t reach his eyes.  God, after so many days getting used to smiling a real smile, this fake one sits uncomfortably on his lips, even after so many _years_ of use.  He doesn’t like this smile.

And Yuuri, bless him, sees it, and sees through it, and sees what’s under it, and without a word, he hangs up Makkachin’s leash and comes straight over to the couch.  Makkachin follows, nosing at Viktor’s knee, then sits back as if to let Yuuri take the lead.  She stays close, though, ever watchful.

“Did anything happen?” Yuuri asks, wrapping his arms around Viktor’s shoulders and letting him lean against his stomach.  “Or is it just a bad day?”

“Bad day,” Viktor mumbles, closing his eyes.  Yuuri’s sweater smells of crisp, fresh air and their vanilla-lavender laundry detergent.  Smells like home.  He breathes in deeply, while Yuuri’s hand starts stroking through his hair, slow and gentle and soothing.

Yuuri hums.  “Have you eaten?”

Viktor shakes his head slightly.  “Didn’t care enough,” he admits, voice muffled.  “Don’t go.”

“I won’t,” Yuuri says.  “We should get you breakfast, though.  Not necessarily right this second, but soon.  Okay?”

“In a little while,” Viktor says, his voice small.  “Stay?”

Yuuri gives him a little squeeze.  “Of course I will,” he promises.  “Here, scoot back for a second?”

Reluctantly, Viktor pulls away, making room.  Yuuri immediately settles onto the couch next to him, leaning back against the armrest and holding out his arms.  He’s beautiful, he’s so beautiful, even in sweatpants and a loose sweater with wind-mussed hair, _god_ he’s so beautiful Viktor almost wants to cry, absurd as it sounds.  It feels absurd, too.

“Come here,” he says gently, and that’s all the urging Viktor needs—he nuzzles his face into Yuuri’s neck as Yuuri’s arms wrap around him, comforting and firm.  “Do you want to talk about it?”

Viktor shrugs slightly.  “Not much to say,” he answers, pressing closer, wrapping his arms around Yuuri as best as he can.  He just—he needs to be close to him, _needs_ his warmth and his comfort and his love.  It’s the only way to fill the gaping hole in the pit of his stomach.

“Okay,” Yuuri says.  One of his hands curves its way around Viktor’s head, finding a home in his hair, and the other starts rubbing slow, long circles up and down his back.  It helps, helps Viktor remember that this is all real and he’s not alone after all—but then, he wonders acerbically, why does he still feel like this?

“Don’t go,” he pleads again, mumbled into Yuuri’s collarbone.

“I’m not going anywhere, Vityen’ka,” Yuuri promises softly.  He presses a gentle kiss to the top of Viktor’s head, so tender that tears prick at Viktor’s eyes before he blinks them away.  He feels numb and sad, but surely it’s not worth _crying_ over.  “I’m right here.  I’m here.”

Even now, even after months of living together, after countless kisses and breathless _I love you_ s whispered in the depths of night or said cheerfully across the breakfast table, it’s hard.  It’s _so_ hard.  Viktor has never opened up to people before, doesn’t know—doesn’t know _how_ this is supposed to work, how much is too much to reveal, whether he even should…

“I worry,” he whispers faintly.  “I worry that one day I’ll wake up and you won’t be.  That…”  He has to pause, to lick dry lips and find his breath, before he can keep going.  “That I’ll stop being what you want.  You almost—you almost walked out of my life in Barcelona; I—I’m _scared_ , Yuuri, I don’t know what I would do if it happened and all my worst nightmares came true and I wasn’t enough for the person who’s taught me to find happiness for the first time in years, and—”

And it’s seven-thirty in the morning and he’s crying, hot tears blurring his vision and leaking out of the corners of his eyes as he clutches at Yuuri’s shirt, unable to lift his head and look up.  He’s laying bare his heart, admitting so freely how happy Yuuri makes him, and being so vulnerable is nothing short of terrifying.  He’s not used to it, he doesn’t know how to do this, and he can’t stop crying.

But Yuuri is still holding him, though his hands have stilled.

“Vitya,” he says softly.  “Vityen’ka.  That… Barcelona was _my_ mistake.  It wasn’t you.  I… I let my own insecurities get the better of me and I assumed I knew what you wanted and I didn’t ask—but I _promise_ I’ll never do that to you again.  I know, believe me, I know it’s impossible to stop being afraid completely, but I’m… I won’t leave you alone, I promise.”

It’s all too much.  A sob wrenches itself out of Viktor’s throat—not just silent tears, but a real, honest-to-god sob—and he buries his face into Yuuri’s neck and curls in on himself, overflowing with so many emotions that it _hurts_ deep in the pit of his stomach.

“Oh, Vitya,” Yuuri murmurs.  He hesitates, then keeps rubbing Viktor’s back, slow and gentle and firm.  “It’s okay.  I’m sorry.  It’s okay.  I’m here.”

“I love you,” Viktor chokes out.  “I love you, I love you, I love you…”

“I love you, too,” Yuuri says, the uncertainty giving way to pure warmth.  He kisses the top of Viktor’s head again, hugs him tighter, and murmurs into his hair, “I love you so, so much.”

He just wants this to _last_ , can’t imagine going back to a life without Yuuri now that he’s had a tangible taste of what he’s been missing all these years, wants them both to grow old side-by-side.  This _has_ to last, because if it doesn’t, he’ll be lost, lost, lost.

But in his life, only two things have been constant, until now—loneliness and the ice.  If he’s perfectly honest with himself, there’s a little part of him that’s terrified to add a third to that list, terrified to let himself rely on anyone that _isn’t_ himself.

But god, he wants to.

He cries for a few minutes longer, but he’s past the worst of it, having gotten those words out of his chest and into the air.  He still—he still doesn’t feel _great_ , but there’s something about the quiet stillness as he sniffles and lies there tangled up in Yuuri, pressed close and held snugly like something precious, something to be protected.

“Feeling a little better?” Yuuri asks eventually, breaking the silence.

“A little,” Viktor  whispers, but he isn’t ready for this moment to end, isn’t ready to have to put on a mask and pretend he’s not still breaking inside, still full of that horrible numb sadness that he can’t figure out.  Desperately, he curls trembling fingers into the fabric of Yuuri’s shirt.  “Please stay.”

“Always,” Yuuri says simply, and that’s that.  He stays, continues stroking Viktor’s hair, his other hand no longer rubbing big circles into Viktor’s back but instead tapping out gentle, light rhythms between his shoulderblades.  “…I didn’t know you were still hurting from Barcelona.”

Viktor shrugs listlessly.

Yuuri lets out a breath; Viktor can feel it in his chest.  “I’m sorry,” he says again.

“Are you happy here?” Viktor rasps, his voice ragged.  Does he want to know the answer?  He’s afraid.  “Are you happy with me?”

_Yes_ , he tells himself determinedly, bracing himself.  He wants to know.  He has to know.

“Happier than I’ve ever been,” Yuuri says, and the tension inside Viktor breaks.  He kind of wants to cry again, but from relief this time, and from the overwhelming, desperate love that makes his chest ache.  “You make me better.”

“Funny,” Viktor manages around the lump in his throat.  “That’s what you do to me, too.”

Yuuri chuckles softly.  “I think,” he says, “that that’s probably what love is supposed to be.”

Love.  God, how he loves Yuuri, loves him so much it hurts.  Funny.  In all his years of emptiness and loneliness and numbness, he never thought about how much love can hurt, too.  There’s a heavy, deep ache in his chest, soothed only by the weight of Yuuri’s arms around him, the way his face presses into Yuuri’s neck, and the gentle kisses nestled into his hair.

One of Yuuri’s hands pulls away, and Viktor stiffens.  “Wait,” he begs, heart sinking, because _no, please stay, I’m not ready to move and go out and have to be perfect again,_ but Yuuri hushes him quickly.

“Shh,” he soothes, the other hand patting his back reassuringly.  “Not going anywhere.”

Viktor relaxes again, letting out a breath.  “What are you doing?”

“Texting Yakov,” Yuuri answers, leaning his cheek against Viktor’s head.  Viktor closes his eyes again, nestling closer against him, and nods.  Yakov knows… knows he gets like this.  He could handle being around Yakov.  Still, though… the thought of Mila and Yuri and their constant bickering, of the loudness and the brightness of the rink… it’s draining, and he isn’t even actually there.

But he has to go.  It won’t be that bad, right?  That’s what he did every time he woke up feeling like this previously.  Sure, he always hated every single element he skated on those days, because they always felt sloppy and terrible, like he was only going through the motions, but it’s better than having to skip, isn’t it?  He just—he feels like he’s compelled to go.  Even though he’d love to curl up with Makkachin and Yuuri and a blanket for a few hours.

“We’re already late, then?” he asks numbly.  He thought they had a little more time before they had to get ready, but apparently that was wrong.

“No,” Yuuri says, petting his hair.  “But I’m telling him we will be.”

Viktor blinks, brows furrowing in surprise.  “Why?”

Yuuri’s arms both wrap around him again, and this time he can feel the hard, rectangular shape of the phone against his back.  Yuuri’s hold is strong and supportive, and Yuuri pulls him closer as if to deter him from pulling away, as if he ever would.  “Because we’re going to stay here for a while,” he answers simply.  “And I’m going to take care of you.”

Emotion swells again, rising and drowning out the grey with a wave of love for his fiancé that threatens to drown him, too.  It spills out as a clumsy kiss pressed to Yuuri’s neck as Viktor blinks back grateful tears and rasps out, “I love you,” clutching Yuuri’s shirt again like a drowning man clutches a spar of driftwood.

Yuuri hugs him tighter.  “I love you, too, Vitya,” he says, then starts rubbing his back steadily.  “Shh, shh.  I’m here.”

“I know,” Viktor chokes out.  “Please—please t-take care of me.”  The words trip and stumble on his tongue, an unfamiliar request.  How long has it been since he’s cried into someone’s shoulder, being held and comforted, instead of bitterly weeping into his pillows in the silent, stillest hours of the night?

_Please take care of me.  I don’t want to be alone anymore._

“Always,” Yuuri promises, pressing a kiss into his hair. “Always, my Vitya.”

And that’s that.

* * *

 4.

* * *

 “I can’t wait until you turn eighteen,” Viktor sighs, looking at the bottle of vodka on the table and then back to Yuri, who stops his dancing-in-place along to the somewhat muted music and scoffs.

“No amount of whining is gonna change the fact that you’re our designated driver tonight, old man,” he says, and then pours himself another shot, probably out of spite more than anything. 

It’s only his third one tonight, so drinking it out of spite is probably fine.  Especially because he’s been spacing his drinks out pretty well and has also been spending a lot of time at the snack table, which Viktor agrees is a great place to be—Yuuri made a delightful, big chocolate cake for Mila’s birthday, and there’s plenty for everyone to have seconds (or thirds, which they all have agreed not to tell Yakov about).

“Don’t forget to stay hydrated,” Viktor reminds him, leaning over and snagging a strawberry from his plate.

“Hey!  Get your own!” Yuri smacks his arm, snatches his plate up, and stalks away, presumably in search of some water.  Viktor glances around the room as he munches on his berry—the party is in Mila’s parents’ house, and they’ve cleared out some furniture and created a dance floor in the living room.  It’s a decently large party, too; Mila invited everyone from the rink as well as several other friends of hers from school.  Even without getting drunk, it’s still been fun!

Yuuri’s out there somewhere, dancing with Georgi, the last Viktor saw him.  He’s had some vodka, though not a ton because he claims he doesn’t like the taste (Viktor will convert him yet), and a notably larger amount of rum, which means that he’s having a great time.  In fact, now that Yuri is no longer hanging out on this couch with him, perhaps Viktor will go find his fiancé and ask him for a dance!

He’s about to get up when someone passing by trips, topples over the armrest, and lands in his lap.  Of course it’s just the someone he was looking for, looking adorably confused as he blinks, squints, and sways, then makes himself more comfortable and wraps one arm around Viktor’s neck as if he meant to land here all along.

“Hello, sweetheart,” Viktor says, amused, as he shifts to accommodate Yuuri’s weight, letting Yuuri settle cozily between his legs while leaning against his chest.  “What did you do with your glasses?”

Yuuri hums.  “Um… I took them off,” he says, nodding.  “Everything is fuzzy and soft now, it’s cuter this way!”  He rearranges himself so he’s straddling Viktor’s lap, legs tossed wherever there’s room, and then giggles as he boops Viktor’s nose.

Viktor laughs.  “How drunk are you right now?”

“Many,” Yuuri says seriously, then looks worried.  “I lost count.  Is that bad?”

“No, dear, not at all,” Viktor assures him, patting his shoulder.  “Just maybe slow down for a little while, unless you don’t want to remember tonight!  Have you had any water?”

Yuuri nods.  “I went in the kitchen to get some,” he says, and then his eyes widen as if he’s been hit by a memory, and there’s a wobble in his voice as he looks at Viktor plaintively and adds, “I stepped in a puddle.  My _socks got wet!”_

“Oh, no, my poor solnyshko,” Viktor croons, patting his shoulder again and trying to stifle laughter.  It’s not entirely effective, because he knows he’s grinning wider than the sun, but he can’t help it—drunk Yuuri is a sight to behold.  “Did you dance them dry?”

“I could _do_ that?” Yuuri asks, wonder dawning in his face.  “Whoa… I never knew!  I just—I… I didn’t do that, I’m sorry,” and he pats Viktor’s chest the same way Viktor was patting his shoulder.  “I will do it next time!  Just for you!”

“Thank you,” Viktor says.

“You’re welcome!” Yuuri chirps, beaming, and then kisses the tip of his nose, still patting his chest.  “Wow…” he murmurs.  “This is nice.”

Viktor bites his lip to keep from laughing at the awestruck look in Yuuri’s eyes.  Yuuri beams and continues his patting, humming along to the music drifting in from the room next door.

“Very nice!” he says.  “I like this.”

“That’s nice, dear,” Viktor says.  Is “this” referring to Viktor himself, or the action of patting him, which Yuuri is _still_ doing?  He doesn’t really know which, but either way, this is both very cute and very funny.  “Are you having fun?”

“I was!” Yuuri says, nodding emphatically.  Then he winces, touching his head, and stares around the room, slowly looking from side to side.  “Spinning.  Vitya?  Vitya, the room is spinning.  Tell it to stop?”

“Well, darling, it’s understandable.  After all, you _are_ many drunk,” Viktor says, but he slides his hand up to Yuuri’s cheek and guides his head down, letting Yuuri lean heavily into him, head nestled in the crook of his neck.  Yuuri once again rearranges himself, wrapping his legs loosely around Viktor’s waist and settling between his legs again with a hum. “Is that better?”

“Yeah,” Yuuri nods slightly.  He snuggles closer, nose brushing Viktor’s neck, and sighs, melting into Viktor’s embrace.  “I’m tired.”

Viktor strokes his hair soothingly.  There’s something about the way Yuuri is so easily vulnerable with him that makes him want to hold him tight and protect him forever.  “We can get going soon, if you want.  I’ll just have to go hunt Yura down.”

Yuuri hums, resting his hand on Viktor’s chest, just above his heart.  “He’s still having fun,” he says.  “We can wait a little longer.  I just don’t want to dance right now.  Is that okay?”

“More than okay,” Viktor assures him.  “I don’t mind if you want to sit here and cuddle!”

Yuuri cheers and wiggles happily.  “You’re so _good!_ ”  He turns his head and kisses Viktor’s shoulder clumsily, and a surge of affection rises up and crashes over Viktor.  “I like you.”

Viktor laughs warmly.  “I like you, too, sweetheart!”

“I like you more,” Yuuri says.  He wriggles around a little bit, making himself more comfortable between Viktor’s legs, and sighs happily.  “You’re so… so… good.  Yes.  Good.”

“I like you most,” Viktor assures him, unable to stop grinning. 

“I like you mostest,” Yuuri says, nodding to himself with satisfaction.  “Mostest.  Yes.”

“I like you mostest- _est_ ,” Viktor says, and Yuuri gasps as if betrayed.

Viktor can’t help but laugh again.  The scandalized look is too much.  It’s too bad his phone is in his pocket and is therefore unreachable at the moment, or else he’d take a picture and quite possibly send it to Phichit, too.

Just then, Yuri walks back into the room and flops down on the couch again, tossing his feet between them into Yuuri’s lap without so much as a hello before he pulls his phone out, obviously texting someone (probably Otabek).  “I’m ready to go home,” he says, not looking up.

Yuuri lifts his head to look plaintively at Yuri.  “Yuuuura,” he calls, eyes wide.  “Yurochka, he’s being _mean_ to me!”

Yuri snorts loudly as Viktor raises his eyebrows in question.  “I find _that_ pretty damn hard to believe, Katsudon.  What’d he do, rub it in that you always embarrass yourself when you’re drunk?”

“What?  No,” Yuuri says incredulously, looking at Viktor as if to confirm that that is not a thing that happens, ever.  Viktor just shrugs slightly and smiles at him, and Yuuri melts into a smile and kisses the tip of his nose again.  “No, he—he’s trying to tell me that he loves me more than I love him!”

Yuri stares at them both for a moment before he rolls over and buries his face in the couch cushions with a loud groan.

“I hate this fucking family.”

“Family?” Viktor asks, grinning.  A completely sober Yuri Plisetsky would _never_ have said that out loud, especially not to a completely sober Viktor, which of course means he has to make sure he never lets Yuri live it down.  That’s what family does, right?

Yuuri sits up a little straighter.  “We are family,” he starts to sing softly, off-key and adorable, complete with an attempt at dancing in Viktor’s arms that only really amounts to another wiggle.  “Get up, everybody, and sing…”

“I changed my mind,” Yuri complains.  “Fucking disown me already, I don’t want any part of this…”

“Not even the ride home?” Viktor asks innocently.  “Fair enough.  Well, in that case, I think my beautiful, lovely, charming fiancé and I will get going—”

“Fiancé?  You’re _engaged?”_ Yuuri interrupts, and his face crumples as tears start to well up in his eyes, alarmingly fast.  “But—but I thought—but _I_ love you!  A-and, and, I want to marry you!  B-but if—if you’re _engaged_ …”

“Jesus fucking _hell,”_ Yuri groans, grabbing a cushion and smushing it over his face.  “Shut _up,_ Katsudon, I swear to god!”

“Darling,” Viktor coos, kissing the corner of his silly, adorable fiancé’s mouth quickly, before any of the tears can fall.  “Sweetest one.  My love.  Honeybunches.  I’m engaged to _you.”_

Yuuri stills.

“Oh,” he says, and blinks.  Blinks again, squinting at the ring on his hand.  Viktor can see the realization dawn on his face, like a sunrise. _“Ohhhh.”_

“Oh,” Viktor agrees, laughing.  Yuuri’s hands come up to cup his cheeks, and Viktor closes his eyes for a moment, leaning into his touch.  Yuuri’s hands are warm—probably a leftover from all his dancing—and he can feel his ring, smooth metal against his cheekbone.  Honestly?  Sitting here holding and being held by Yuuri, he can think of nothing more he wants.  Just this, for the rest of time.

Then Yuuri squishes his face and giggles, and Viktor’s romantic daydreams slip away as he lets out a long-suffering sigh.  “Must you?”

“Do it more,” Yuri says, voice muffled from under the cushion.  “I don’t know what you’re doing, but he doesn’t sound happy, so.”

“Remember what I said about that ride home, Yura,” Viktor warns, no heat in his voice whatsoever.  Yuuri squishes his cheeks again, giggles again, and then clumsily kisses him.

“Wow!” he says, laughing as he pulls back.  “Wow!  That’s what _you_ always say.  _Wow, wow, wow!”_   He widens his eyes, too, doing his best Viktor impression, and Viktor can’t help but laugh at the awestruck look he’s trying to pull off.  _God,_ his fiancé is precious.  “I’m marrying you!  Wow!”

“Yes, dear, you are!” Viktor laughs.  He can forgive the face-squishing if it comes with laughter like this.  “Isn’t it exciting?”

“Yes!” Yuuri squeals.  He turns in Viktor’s arms to grab the cushion from Yuri’s hands and waves it at him gleefully.  “Yura!  Yura, I’m marrying him!”

Yuri snatches the pillow back with a look of immense affront.  “I _know,”_ he groans, aggrieved, and smushes it into his face again. 

Viktor laughs.  He can’t help himself.

“Alright, my Yuris,” he says, giving Yuuri a squeeze with one arm while patting Yuri’s knee with the other.  “Are we all ready to get going?”

“Yeah,” Yuri says, pushing the cushion down enough to send a baleful glance over the fringe.  “Are you two actually getting up, or are you gonna sit there and flirt for another minute?”

“I’m gonna sit here _forever!”_ Yuuri announces, wiggling happily in Viktor’s lap again.  Viktor laughs again.

“You sure as fucking hell are _not,”_ Yuri huffs.  “Your fiancé is driving me home, remember?  So you need to get the fuck up, Katsudon.”

“My fiancé,” Yuuri repeats with wonder, looking at Viktor.  “Wow.  He’s so pretty.  Yura, Yura look.  Look!  My fiancé is _so pretty!”_

“You are focusing on the wrong part of that goddamn sentence,” Yuri informs him, more aggrieved than ever.  “Get _up.”_

Yuuri frowns, looking down.  “But… the room is spinning,” he says.

Yuri rolls his eyes.  “That sounds like a personal problem.”

Yuuri continues to frown, poking at Yuri’s ankle, which is between Viktor and him, preventing him from detangling himself.  “This… is not my leg.”

“Hey!”  Yuri snatches his feet away, curling up with his knees tucked to his chest as he glares balefully over the top of his cushion.  “That’s _my_ leg!  You can’t have it, I need it to beat you!”

“I don’t _want_ it!” Yuuri protests.  “It’s too short!”

Yuri gapes for a moment.  Then he hisses “Take that back, you jerk!” and hurls the cushion at Yuuri as hard as he can, except he’s tipsy and lying down and long story short, it smacks into the side of Viktor’s head instead, then anticlimatically falls back down onto the couch.  All three of them stare at it for a moment.

“Thanks,” Viktor says, drier than the wind in the Sahara.

“You’re welcome!” Yuuri chirps, kissing his cheek.

Yuri sighs.  “Let’s just _go_ already,” he says, getting up and tugging Yuuri’s arm to pull him away.  Yuuri protests with a wordless wail of distress, clinging to Viktor with the most plaintive look Viktor has ever seen.

“Come on, honey,” Viktor laughs, trying to extricate himself.  “I need to drive.”

Yuuri whines.  He buries his face in Viktor’s neck, clings to him even more tightly, and then looks up with wide eyes to shake his head _no._

“We can cuddle all night?” Viktor wheedles, heart melting at the way Yuuri looks at him.

“You promise?” Yuuri asks, eyes widening further.

“I promise,” Viktor says solemnly.  Yuuri takes his hand from Viktor’s shoulder to hold it up, pinky extended, and waits until Viktor wraps his pinky around it to make the promise sacred. 

“Okay,” he says, then wriggles around, trying to figure out how to detach his legs from around Viktor’s waist.  Viktor laughs again.

“Yura,” he says, “be a dear and figure out what Yuuri did with his glasses, would you?”

“What am I, the errand boy?” Yuri scoffs, but he stuffs his phone in his pocket and starts walking toward the living-room-turned-dance-floor, which is presumably where Yuuri left them.  Viktor is left to deal with the cuddly pile of fiancé in his arms, and with all the affection he feels for him.

“Yuuri,” he coos, leaning in and nuzzling their noses together.  Yuuri stops moving to nuzzle back, his face brightening with a million-watt smile.  “You’re so sweet, my love, my life, my heart!”

Yuuri giggles.  “We’re getting married!” he says again, patting Viktor’s cheek.

“We are!” Viktor agrees.  “Come on, let’s go home.  Yes?”

“Okay,” Yuuri says pleasantly, nodding.  “Home.  Yes.”

With some assistance, he manages to unwrap himself from Viktor, and just as they’re both getting to their feet, Yuri returns, scowling, and thrusts the glasses in Viktor’s face.

“They were in a fucking crystal _vase_ ,” he says.  “What the hell, Katsudon.”

Yuuri smiles cheerfully.  “So the flowers could see crystal clear!” he says, as if that makes _any_ sense whatsoever.  Then he reaches for both of their hands and starts tottering toward the door.  “Come come.  Let’s go home, yes?  Yes.”

Viktor lets himself be led onward, unable to stop the smile that tugs at his lips.  His cheeks are going to hurt, at this rate.  Yuuri always has this effect on him, doesn’t he.

Yuri elbows him in the ribs.  “Do you have to look so lovesick when you aren’t even drunk?” he asks, scowling, but Viktor just laughs it off.

“Yes,” he answers cheerfully.  “Maybe I’m drunk on love.”

“Home, home, home!” Yuuri sing-songs.  Viktor has to let go of his hand to wrap an arm around his waist, afraid he’s going to walk into a doorframe.  “Let’s go home!”

_My poor, silly, adorable Yuuri,_ Viktor thinks, amused.  _Don’t you know, with you, I already am?_

* * *

5.

* * *

 Viktor is fretting.

Tonight was supposed to be date night, except the weather took a sudden turn for the worse in the afternoon.  He was at the rink with Yakov, but Yuuri was doing groceries, and it’s snowing now, and Yuuri _still_ isn’t back, and to make matters worse, he forgot his phone at home!  Viktor called him and it started ringing… in the living room, under the couch cushions. 

_Of course._

So here he sits, mindlessly scrolling through Twitter and anxiously scanning the windows every minute or so, watching as the snow starts to fall heavier and heavier.  Date night will have to be postponed, at this rate.  There’s no point in driving around downtown in bad weather when they can just stay home.

Makkachin senses his worry, padding over from her bed to lay her head in his lap with a soft _whuff_.  He flickers an absent smile down at her, scratching behind her ears, but really—where is Yuuri?  Is he still at the store?  What if he gets snowed in at the grocery store without his phone?  What if he’s out on the street carrying groceries in all this?  What if he slips and hurts himself and can’t call Viktor to let him know what’s going on?!  Maybe he ought to go out and look for him—

A key clicks into the door.  Viktor has never heard a sweeter sound.

Yuuri more or less tumbles in, red-cheeked and thoroughly wind-tousled, from his somewhat askew hat to his scarf, flung over his shoulder, with snow liberally dusted all over him.  He also has the groceries, which Viktor hurries to take from him.

“Yuuri!  You’re home!” he says, setting them aside to help Yuuri with his coat, jacket, and scarf.  He kisses the tip of that cold, red nose. “I was getting worried, zolotse.”

Yuuri laughs softly, dropping the coat and burying his face in Viktor’s neck.  “Mmm.  Sorry.  I got distracted on the way home,” he says, voice muffled.

“Your face is cold,” Viktor complains, but he wraps his arms around his fiancé tightly, too, just in case he gets any delusions as to what that statement means and tries to pull away.  “The rest of you is cold, too.  Come, come.  Let’s warm you up.”

“Let’s put the groceries away, first,” Yuuri suggests.  He’s _right_ , of course; they do need to take care of that.  It doesn’t mean Viktor doesn’t just want to scoop him up and carry him to bed and wrap him in at least twelve blankets.

“Right, right,” Viktor says, hurrying to take care of the bags while Makkachin greets Yuuri with her usual loving enthusiasm.  He hears Yuuri laugh brightly behind him, cooing over Makkachin with delight, as he’s putting the milk and eggs in the fridge, and it makes him smile.

The potatoes and onions go in the vegetable cabinet, the garlic goes in box next to them, and the coriander goes in the fridge too, next to the tomatoes. There’s one little bag inside the grocery bags left, and Viktor pulls it out, blinking curiously. 

“What’s this?” he asks, reaching inside.  Yuuri looks over from where he’s crouched on the rug with Makkachin’s paws on his shoulders so she can hug him properly, and his face brightens a little.

“It’s nothing really,” he laughs softly, standing and coming over to the kitchen to gently bump Viktor with his hip.  “I was walking home and saw it in a shop window and thought of you, so…”

Eyebrows raised, Viktor opens the tiny bag, peers inside, and bursts out laughing.

“ _This_ ,” he chortles, “reminded you of me?”

Yuuri grins wryly.  “Look me in the eye and tell me it isn’t something you would’ve bought yourself.”

Viktor pulls the hot pink, sunglasses-toting poodle figurine out of its packaging and surveys its carven hot-pink sweater, emblazoned with a dark blue “#2Fab4U”, and is unable to restrain a delighted grin.  “I can’t tell you that,” he admits.  It’s a very stylized poodle, cut in the traditional poofy cut that would look atrocious on Makkachin, and the color probably matches his car to the shade.  It’s _perfect_.

“I thought not,” Yuuri says with just a hint of smugness.  Viktor playfully bumps his hip, beaming, then walks over to place his lovely new poodle figurine on top of the fridge, so she can look out over their kitchen and judge everyone who enters.

“We can name her Ekaterina,” he says.  “She’ll be Makkachin’s friend from another life.”

“If she’s anything like Makkachin, maybe we shouldn’t keep her near the fridge,” Yuuri jokes, and Viktor snorts.

“Now!” he says.  “Thank you very much for Ekaterina, solnyshko, but I believe I was in the business of warming you up.”

“Yes, please,” Yuuri says, nodding frantically.  He comes around the counter and presses his face into Viktor’s neck again, his nose still cold against his skin.  “Some tea would be _wonderful.”_

“I’ll make you some,” Viktor says, grinning again when the flash of hot pink above the fridge catches his eye.  “Oh, my poor Yuuri.  So cold, so cold.  Not built for Russian winters, hmm?”

“Not all of us can be furnaces,” Yuuri grumbles, just as he always does when Viktor teases him for having a low tolerance for winter in general.  “That’s what I have you for.”

Viktor draws back enough to narrow his eyes down at his beautiful fiancé.  “Don’t you _dare_ stick your cold hands down my pants again,” he warns.  “That wasn’t funny!”

Yuuri cracks a grin up at him, wrapping his arms around his waist.  “I thought it was pretty funny.”

“Yuuri,” Viktor sighs.  “You can’t just do that to a person’s ass when they aren’t expecting it.  I think you took three years off my life from pure shock!”

Yuuri snorts.  “Nonsense,” he says.  Patiently, he gives Viktor an affectionate squeeze and explains, “You have a lovely ass, Vitya.  It’d be a shame not to put it to use.”

Heat floods to his face at such a blunt statement, and Viktor quickly nuzzles his face into Yuuri’s hair to pretend he’s not blushing.  Because _dammit,_ he’s pale, and he’s blushing.  “I mean—I, yes, I know I do,” he says, and sighs because he knows he’s not fooling anyone.

There’s a smile in Yuuri’s voice when he hums, “Yes, dear, of course,” and starts to sway their hug so it’s almost a very rudimentary slow dance, shifting from foot to foot in the kitchen.  Viktor sways along, ignoring the teasing, because he _knows_ he has a nice butt and that his darling appreciates it, okay, he knows, and Yuuri starts humming too.

And it’s quite nice, standing there under Ekaterina’s admittedly judgmental gaze and not-quite-dancing with Yuuri, warm and cozy while the storm rises outside.  It’s very nice, until something _icy_ brushes his back.

Viktor _shrieks_.

Yuuri bursts out laughing, stumbling back from the hug to brace himself against the counter and tip his head back.  His cold, cruel hands are no longer under Viktor’s shirt, but he can still feel the ghost of them, frigid against his spine, and a shiver runs through him as he crosses his arms.

_“Yuuri!”_

“You said not to stick my hands down your pants again!” Yuuri defends, laughing even harder.  “You never—you never said anything about sticking them up your shirt!”

“Oh, _fantastic,”_ Viktor deadpans, turning to Makkachin and gesturing at his fiancé.  “Do you see this?  Look at him!  He’s gone from being a figure skater to a copyright lawyer!  Finding all the loopholes!”

Makkachin blinks and turns her head to one side.  She considers him for a minute, then pads over to Yuuri and noses at the drawer behind his knees, the one where she knows they keep the treats.  Viktor stares at her curly, traitorous tail.

“There is no sympathy to be found in this apartment,” he laments, sinking to the floor.  It does the trick, and Makkachin immediately wheels around to plant herself in his lap, licking his cheek enthusiastically.  Yuuri starts to laugh all over again.

“You said you wanted to warm me up,” he points out, plopping down and scooting over next to him.  Makkachin steps on his ankle and lays across both of their laps, not seeming to care that the floor in front of the fridge is not one of their usual cuddle spots.  “I was just taking you up on that!”

“I meant with blankets, kisses, and love,” Viktor complains, scrunching his fingers through Makkachin’s fur and scratching behind her ears, just how she likes it.  “Not the icy hands of death creeping into my _soul_ , Yuuri.”

“Oh, well,” Yuuri says, hugging him again.  “Specify next time.”

“Copyright lawyer,” Viktor mutters, smile tugging at his lips as he wraps his arm around Yuuri’s waist. Yuuri leans into him, head finding his shoulder, and Viktor leans back against the fridge, strangely content for someone who is more or less on the bottom of a small dogpile on his own kitchen floor.

If cold hands and dogpiles on the kitchen floor are what married life is going to be like, well…  don't tell Yuuri about the cold hands part, but he can’t wait.

* * *

+1

* * *

 Yuuri has been missing his family lately.  He’s been quiet, looking at pictures of Hasetsu and watching old videos, or spending lots of time on the phone with his sister.  Viktor can tell he misses them, but they don’t have time to travel to Japan for another month at the earliest, what with their training schedules and everything.  He sits with Yuuri and tries to cheer him up, but uprooting oneself to an entirely new country isn’t easy, even if it’s not the first time, and he’s determined to do _something_ to help his darling feel more at home.

When the idea hits him like a sack of bricks, he’s in the shower, and he nearly slips and cracks his head open on the countertop in his rush to get to his phone, wet fingers fumbling at the screen as he stands there, dripping all over the bathroom floor.

Katsuki Hiroko answers on the second ring, her voice warm as always.  “Hello, Vicchan!” she greets.  “How are you?”

“I’m doing quite well!” he answers cheerfully.  “But I have a huge, urgent favor to ask.  Can you send me your recipe for katsudon?”

“What?” she asks.  “It is very noisy on your end, Vicchan!  You want katsudon?”

“Oh,” Viktor says sheepishly, laughing.  He repeats himself, louder this time.  “I forgot to turn the shower off.  I said, can you send me your recipe for katsudon?”

“Of course!” she answers immediately, and just like with Yuuri, Viktor can practically hear her smile in her voice.  “I will email it to you tonight.  We didn’t miss a competition, did we?”

“No, no!” Viktor reassures quickly.  He glances at himself in the mirror and notices some bubbles still in his hair, like an odd imitation of his flower crowns, and has to stifle a laugh.  “I just wanted to make some for fun, I guess.  Anyway, I need to go, but Yuuri and I will call you later!  Bye!”

“Okay!  Bye, Vicchan.  We love you!”

“Love you too!” he chirps, then ends the call and hurriedly hops back in the shower, shuddering with relief when the hot water saves him from the cold bathroom air.

That evening, he glances over the email Hiroko sent him, making a note of what he'll need to buy before attempting it, before he heads to the living room and drapes his arms around Yuuri, who is dozing on the couch.

“Hi, honey,” he says when Yuuri stirs, making a soft, sleepy sound of inquiry.  “Why don’t we move to the bed and sleep?”

“Mm,” Yuuri sighs, leaning against him.  “You smell nice.”  His voice is breathy and low, not very awake at all, and it’s very endearing.  Equally endearing is the way he just melts so cozily into Viktor’s arms.

“It’s the lotion,” he says, chuckling as he kisses the top of Yuuri’s head.  “But thank you, dear.”

Yuuri sighs again.  His eyelashes flutter as he blinks a few times, head lolling against Viktor’s shoulder.  “I’m sleepy,” he says, loosely hooking his foot around Viktor’s ankle.  “Kiss me?”

“Gladly.”  Viktor chuckles slightly, something warm and fond stirring in his chest, and leans in to press a gentle kiss to Yuuri’s soft lips.  Yuuri kisses him back, slow and comfortable, like they have all the time in the world, and Viktor smiles at the thought.  He can’t wait to spend his life making Yuuri smile.

…Speaking of which, he has some groceries to run soon.  Maybe he should enlist some backup to make sure this turns out well.  That shouldn't be hard—everyone loves Yuuri, so they’ll happily help out.

“Vitya?”  Yuuri asks, snuggling close again.  Viktor folds his arms around him snugly, a little bit overcome by the desire to keep him safe and warm and happy.

“Yes, dorogoy?”

“…Let’s go to bed,” Yuuri sighs against his collarbone.  “Sleepy.”

Viktor tips his chin up gently to kiss him again, brief and affectionate.  “Yes,” he agrees.  “Let’s.”

After a few more sleepy kisses, Viktor manages to get Yuuri to get up and come to bed, where Yuuri promptly flops face-down into a pillow.  Viktor snorts, pulling the blanket up over him, before plugging both of their phones in and going back to the living room for Yuuri's glasses.  He makes a few texts concerning the day off they have coming up, then tucks himself around Yuuri and switches off the lamp, satisfied.  Yuuri nuzzles into his arms and falls asleep again almost immediately.

Soon enough, the day itself arrives, and all of Viktor’s plans get set into motion.  He stands in front of his gathered conspirators, beaming.

“I love my fiancé,” he announces, just in case anyone happened to forget between now and the last time he said it, which was all of about five minutes ago.

“Yes, Vitya,” Yakov sighs.

“He’s wonderful,” Viktor adds, and maybe he shouldn’t be needling his poor coach, but it’s _funny_ , so…

“I know, Vitya.”

“Shut _up_ , oh my god,” Yuri groans.  “We _know._ You never stop talking about it.  He has you wrapped around his stupid little finger, yeah, yeah.  Listen, we _know_ the plan, we’ve been over it twelve fucking times, and we’re not so incompetent that we can’t distract him for a few goddamn hours.  Go away.  Shoo.”

“Yeah!” Mila says, nodding enthusiastically.  “You should get started!  Besides, he’ll be suspicious if he gets here and we’re all gathered like this with you, while you’re supposed to be at home!  You said act casual about it, right?”

“As casual as this group of fools _can_ act,” Yakov mutters darkly.

“Right!” Viktor cheers, sunny smile in place.  “Send him home when I text you, okay?”

“You owe me for this,” Yuri mutters. 

“You had the option to opt out of Operation Distract Yuuri,” Mila points out.  “Multiple times.”

Yuri huffs, crossing his arms.  Viktor wants to laugh, but holds it in for the sake of his little rinkmate’s precious street cred.  It’s so cute how he cares about everyone but is so loath to admit it.  “Yeah, well… if… if I didn’t, I’d have to deal with Katsudon moping around and missing Japan all the time, so.”

“We’d still be surprising him even if you didn’t help out,” Mila argues, her wide smile assuring everyone that she’s quite aware of how close to dragging Yuri’s street cred through the mud he is.

True to form, Yuri just goes a bit red in the cheeks.  “Yeah, well, shut the fuck up, hag!” he scowls.  “Maybe I just want to make sure you don’t fuck it up!”

“So you do care, Yura!” Viktor crows, also throwing the concept of the street cred out the window and joining Mila in teasing.  Yuri glares at him.

“Not about you, I sure as hell don’t!”

“Children!” Yakov growls, looking impatient already.  “Stop your stupid squabbling, the lot of you!  Vitya, get going, you have more important things to do than bothering your rinkmates!  Do you want to pull this off or not?”

“I’m going, I’m _going!”_ Viktor pouts.  “Just make sure he has a good day regardless, in case I end up messing it up.  Bye now!”

And that’s how he winds up in his kitchen alone with Makkachin, leaving his darling Yuuri in the (hopefully) capable hands of his rinkmates and Yakov, who insisted on being involved to make sure that in the absence of Georgi (who is on a date), Mila and Yuri don’t “tear that poor man apart”, in his words.  So long as Yuuri enjoys himself, Viktor’s fine with that, really.

“Well, Makkachin,” he says, looking at the email again, “Mama Hiroko says this isn’t a very hard dish to make, and I trust her judgment!  We should be able to do it for our Yuuri, don’t you think?”

Makkachin’s tail thumps against the cabinet next to her in response.

“I like your enthusiasm,” Viktor tells her.  Then he sets to work.

Hiroko proves right in the end, as she so often does.  It’s not a particularly hard dish to make, after he gets back from a quick run to the grocery store.  Makkachin watches him as he deep-fries the breaded pork, nudges his feet while he’s cutting it into strips, and yawns and pads off to take a nap while he’s boiling the sake, mirin, and Dashi sauce.

Soon enough, he fires off a text to Yakov and starts setting the table for a nice candlelit dinner for two, humming all the while.  After a moment’s thought he gets the kettle out, too, not sure which tea Yuuri will want tonight but sure that he’ll want some.  He usually likes a cup of herbal tea at the end of the day.

Yuuri gets home with almost perfect timing, stumbling in with wind-blown hair and rosy, very kissable cheeks.  Viktor swoops in to take advantage of just how kissable they are, and his smiling fiancé all but falls into his arms.

“Vitya!” he greets, leaning heavily into him.  “Hi!  Wow, it’s been such a long day—sorry I kept having to put off coming home, first Mila wanted someone to come shopping with her and then Yura needed help with his math homework, and then Yakov and Lilia wanted me to stay for tea, and…”

“That’s perfectly alright, dear,” Viktor says, pretending he had absolutely nothing to do with Yuuri and his seemingly impromptu day out.  “Did you have a good time?”

“I did!” Yuuri beams.  “I’m… very ready to stay in for the rest of the evening, though.  And for dinner.  Do we have anything?”

Viktor grins like the cat with the cream.

“As a matter of fact,” he says, sliding his arm around Yuuri’s waist and guiding him to the dining table, “we do.”

Yuuri stops walking abruptly with a soft gasp and then takes it all in silently, staring at the two bowls of katsudon and the floral centerpiece and the candles and Makkachin, waiting patiently under the table for the morsels that she knows are inevitably coming her way.  Then he slowly looks up at Viktor, eyes wide and maybe a little _too_ shiny.

“But… I haven’t won anything,” he says, sounding confused.

Viktor frowns.  “That’s not true,” he says.  “You won my heart!”

Yuuri blinks at him.   Then he looks down at the table again.  Another slow, wide-eyed look, like he maybe can’t quite believe it’s all real.  “You… did all this?  Why?”

Viktor kisses his cheek again.  “Because,” he says, “I thought you were sad lately and could use something nice.  A reminder of home, maybe?  So I got the recipe from your mother.  Come, come, sit down, eat!  It’ll get cold, and I know you don’t like cold katsudon nearly as much.”

Yuuri tackles him.

Well—alright, perhaps “tackles” is a strong word, but he certainly flings himself into Viktor’s arms, wrapping himself around him tightly while Viktor stumbles back a couple of steps in surprise.  He’s proud to say he doesn’t fall, at least.  Instead, he catches Yuuri and hugs him back, lifting him from the ground for just a moment.

“Thank you,” Yuuri mumbles into his neck, clutching at him.  “Thank you, thank you, I—you’re so—!”  He breaks off and just squeezes tighter, adorably lost for words.

Viktor laughs softly, rubs his back, and draws back so he can peck his lips.  “You’re welcome, solnyshko,” he answers warmly.  Yuuri pulls him into another little kiss, nuzzling his face, and “reluctant” isn’t strong enough of a word to describe how loath to pull away Viktor is.  But if he doesn’t, the food will get cold, so he touches Yuuri’s lips with a finger and says, “But really, let’s eat!  I want you to enjoy it.”

“Okay, okay,” Yuuri says, laughing now, and he pulls back with a radiant smile, wiping at his eyes.  Viktor hurries around him to pull out his chair.

“For you, my love,” he says with his most dramatic, elegant, courtly bow and flourish, and just as expected, Yuuri laughs again.  It’s the most delighted, precious sound on the planet.

“Thank you, my love,” he answers, bowing back ridiculously deeply before he plants a loud, smacking kiss on Viktor’s cheek and sits down.  Viktor lets out a very undignified snort before going around to his side of the table and taking his seat, where he promptly initiates a game of footsie under the table.  Makkachin ends it just as promptly by lifting her head and huffing her displeasure when Viktor’s foot brushes her side.

“Sorry, sorry, dear,” he says quickly, petting her back with the other foot, and she settles back down, placated.  Yuuri shakes his head with playful reprimand, but softens as soon as Viktor catches his eye and smiles.

“Thank you,” he says again, and Viktor’s smile broadens indulgently.

“Yuuri, you haven’t even eaten any yet,” he says, leaning his chin on one hand.  “Go on, tell me if it’s any good!”

Yuuri raises an eyebrow at him while picking up his chopsticks.  “Oh, so you can figure out whether you should bother eating it or not?” he teases.  Viktor sticks his tongue out like the mature adult he is, and waits with a little nervous flutter in his stomach as Yuuri lifts the first bite to his lips.

And his face absolutely lights up.

He chews, swallows, and considers for a moment, then says slowly, “No, it’s… it’s not good.  I’ll just—I’ll just take that bowl off your hands, so you don’t have to eat it, I’ll just, um, take care of it for you—”

_“Yuuri!”_   Viktor laughs, tossing one of his chopsticks across the table.  It hits Yuuri’s shoulder and falls into his lap, and he picks it up and tosses it back, grinning.  “You devious little rascal, you almost had me worried that I messed up your mother’s recipe!”

Yuuri giggles, actually giggles, and it’s so adorable that Viktor considers climbing over the table to kiss him.  He doesn’t, though, because Makkachin has rolled over on top of his feet, and she would certainly be displeased if he moved now.

“Okay, okay!” Yuuri says, pushing up his glasses with a finger.  He’s still got that mischievous little twinkle in his eyes as he picks up another bite.  “It’s really, _really_ good and I am _so_ in love with you right now.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” Viktor says, beaming.  “I, too, am very in love with you at any given moment.”

Yuuri lets out the most blissful sigh as he keeps eating, and it’s not until his foot pokes Viktor’s shin that Viktor realizes he’s just been sitting there watching Yuuri and probably smiling like a lovesick fool instead of eating his own katsudon.

“Yours is getting cold, too, you know!”  Yuuri says.  “Aren’t you going to eat?”

“Oh!” Viktor says, smacking his forehead.  “You’re too distractingly beautiful.  I can’t help myself.  It’s like being hypnotized.  I can’t look away from the most beautiful man in the world.”

Yuuri blushes, ducking his head.  “Oh, please.  I _know_ you’ve looked in a mirror and walked away before.”

Viktor blinks before letting out a delighted laugh, then winks.  “Yes, well.  That just proves that I can’t be the most beautiful man in the world after all!”

Yuuri frowns at him.  “You are,” he says.  “Now eat your katsudon and stop arguing with me.”

Viktor grins.  “Yes, yes,” he says, and digs in with relish.

After the meal, Yuuri leans back in his chair and sighs.  “I… really needed that,” he says, smiling softly.  “Thank you, Vitya.  It was almost as good as my mom’s.”

“Almost?” Viktor asks.  He stands, carefully easing his feet out from under Makkachin, and walks around the table to wrap his arms loosely around Yuuri’s neck.  Yuuri leans against him, head against his stomach, and smiles. 

“Almost,” he agrees.

“Well,” Viktor says.  What a perfect time for him to suggest the other half of his _cheer up Yuuri_ plan.  He already looked at plane tickets earlier.  “I guess we’ll need to go to Hasetsu as soon as we’re on break so I can learn her secrets.  What do you say?”

When Yuuri abruptly stands up and kisses him, he figures that’s all the _yes_ he needs.

 

**Author's Note:**

> ive been working on this in like bits and pieces for a few months now but i just really wanted to finish it, haha!! anyway back to trfl with me...
> 
> as mentioned in the summary, the beautiful sketch in the middle was done by [riki](www.riki-cartblog.tumblr.com), who is absolutely amazing and you should all go check out her art! <3


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